


Places

by Festiveviolet31



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Historical References, Male Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, Multi, Pre-Relationship, Snapshots, fluff and some angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-03-17 20:02:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13666296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Festiveviolet31/pseuds/Festiveviolet31
Summary: A series of unrelated snapshots, each depicting love between our favorite international spies. Loosely inspired by National Geographic's list of 17 of the World's Most Romantic Destinations. Happy Valentine's Day!(Or, if you're a single lady out there, Happy Galentine's Day! Officially today, February 13th)





	1. Moselle River Valley

**Author's Note:**

  * For [diadema](https://archiveofourown.org/users/diadema/gifts).



> Happy Galentine's Day, diadema! I hope you like the first installment of my little gift to you. I tried to include some things I think you enjoy, research and historical accuracy and more Solo being some of those things! I can't wait to show you more, but for now, please enjoy this first chapter :)
> 
> To any readers, either coupled or uncoupled this year, happy love! 
> 
> PS- sorry for any mistakes in here. Normally I would ask my lovely beta to check for me. But as this is a gift *for* my lovely beta, I was left to my own editing devices.

Illya does not like this day.

He has anticipated this day, _this_ day, for weeks and disliked it from the moment Waverly explained his carefully crafted plans to his golden team of three. He disliked the way the plans bounced off his American teammate and affected him little, as if this day was like any other day of the year. And now, even the weather tells Illya to turn around, to go back where he came from, and to avoid this day entirely.

“It’s not often you see a perfectly clear blue sky and a city full of fog, huh, Peril?”

Illya hates admitting it, but his American teammate is right. It is an early February day in Koblenz, Germany; above Illya’s head, a brilliant blue sky and beaming sun radiate, but around him, wispy grey clouds hang low in city streets.

From the passenger side of the car Illya says nothing, his thumb and his pointer finger folded against his chin. He flicks his eyes to the left to see the American’s smug, chipper face. Why he must always look that way, Illya will never know. Breathing away the frustration he feels bubbling in his chest, he reverts his eyes to the rearview mirror, back to Gaby. She has remained silent for the majority of the trip, and in fact, has grown increasingly silent since Waverly gave them this assignment two weeks ago. She’d spent fewer evenings out, Illya had noticed, retreating back to her quiet flat after work instead of her usual evenings spent at pubs with coworkers from U.N.C.L.E.’s translation department.

Illya wasn’t even supposed to know, as he often reminded himself, how Gaby spent her evenings. She’d made that abundantly clear to him after Rome, and Istanbul, when her soft glances had grown sharp and cold, her words to him decreasing by the day. No, Illya was _not_ supposed to know what Gaby did with her spare time. But what was he to do on his walks back from headquarters, working late as he often did, if he took the long way to his apartment through Gaby’s corner of the city? What was he to do during the times he paused on the cobblestone sidewalk, staring up at the window of a corner flat, waiting for the shadow of a tiny German mechanic to flit in and out of sight?

All of these thoughts come to a screeching halt the moment he hears Gaby’s russet voice from the backseat. “You see it in Koblenz, sometimes.”

If Gaby sees Illya’s blue eyes in the rearview mirror, she doesn’t acknowledge him, instead retreating back to the passing scenery in the window.

“Come here often, Gabs?”

“My father’s mother used to live here. We took a few holidays when I was little,” she replies. There is something about the way her mouth moves, Illya notices, about the way the corners of her lips pull down at the mention of her father, the way her almond eyes shift between her shoes and the car window.

He wants, desperately, to know what she is thinking.

Solo’s voice, bothersome to Illya in almost every way, chimes in from the front again. “Then you’ll be an excellent tour guide for the three of us, won’t you?”

Gaby _mhmms_ an agreement and they continue, winding through antiquated city roads that feel, to Illya, like something out of a history book. They meander through city streets, stopping for children chasing each other and hunched elderly women. The stopping and starting has Illya feeling warm, his turtleneck itching around his throat.

“ _Deutsches Eck_ ,” Solo croons in German, stopped at an intersection, his neck craned to read a street sign. “What do you suppose that means?”

“German corner.” Illya sees Gaby posture slightly in the mirror. _At least she’s talking_ , he thinks, even if it’s to answer questions that Cowboy probably already knows the answer to. “It’s the place where the Rhine and Moselle rivers meet.”

A beep from the car behind them breaks all three from their thoughts. “Turn left here,” Gaby commands. “There’s a monument you’ll probably like, Solo.”

The way Gaby says Solo’s name makes Illya gulp and ask a thousand silent questions of her. Was it a jab at Illya that Gaby intended? Or does she know so little of him that she forgets entirely his interest in history? Illya turns back to the window, cursing the questions that reverberate in his mind as the car creeps around a corner. When they turn, the Rhine river comes into view, the deep blue of it electrified by the low hanging clouds hovering just above the river like steam from a tea kettle.

They hug the river for several minutes until they reach an opening in the trees. “What is this place, Gaby?” Solo asks, putting the car in park. They swing their doors open and get out, the cool air on Illya’s face a relief from the small agency car that cramped his legs and made his back ache. Gaby turns and faces Solo, crossing her arms over the top of the car to look at him.

“Deutsches Eck is where the two rivers meet. William the second put up a statue to commemorate his grandfather in the 1800s. The statue was mostly destroyed during World War Two. Apparently there used to be a horse with wings or something.”

A gust of wind hits them and ruffles Gaby’s hair, knotted at the base of her neck, until a strand comes loose. Illya watches it float for a moment until the wind blows it against her cheek, and he fights every impulse to lift his fingers to her face and brush it away. When Gaby, still talking, brings a hand up and flicks it away herself, Illya coughs and turns from her.

“Anyway, when things split up,” Gaby says with a glance to her right, toward Illya, “President Heuss wanted the remains of the statue to represent a united Germany. He declared it a historical site, and the ruins still stand today.”

Solo nods and turns from his teammates, nestling his hands in his suit pockets and strolling, leisurely, toward the monument. Neither Gaby nor Illya follow. Instead, Illya watches him walk through the trees and towards the small peninsula that noses out into the two rivers; in the middle sits a stone platform with steps leading up to the ruins of a monument that once was. There is no horse with wings, Illya notices, only a stone table boasting robust columns on each side. He wants to remember the term for the architecture, to say something to Gaby, but any knowledge escapes him when he sees the small, German mechanic leaning against the front of the car.

Illya takes a few small, measured steps towards Gaby. He clears his throat as he comes up next to her, and a swift glance and slight nod indicate to him that he is safe to join her. He leaves several feet between them, longing to close the distance and stand beside her, to feel her weight against him. Illya dismisses those thoughts with another clearing of his throat and stands squarely, his hands in the pockets of his jacket. He doesn’t look at her and curses himself for his inability to summon the right words or the right sentiment. Instead, he keeps his eyes forward and remains silent, tallying the other cars around them and the few pedestrians circling the monument.

“I’m sorry,” Gaby finally says. The sound of her voice disrupts Illya from his counting. With wide eyes he looks down at Gaby and feels himself search desperately for the correct thing to say.

“For what?”

She doesn’t answer his question. Instead, her eyes stay fixed where the two rivers flow into each other.

“It’s my first time back since…” Gaby doesn’t finish her thought. With Illya, she doesn’t need to.

“I know.”

It’s all he can think to say in the moment. He knows very well what this day means to Gaby: it is her first time back in Germany since she was rescued over the wall by an American CIA agent many months ago, chased by a KGB dog that meant to keep her there. Illya very much knows why today is unpleasant, and possibly painful, for her.

Illya doesn’t speak again. Instead, he takes a few steps closer to Gaby, coming up beside her until he feels her shoulder against his arm. They remain like that for some time until Solo wanders back to them, singing the praises of history and artifacts and other things Illya doesn’t care to hear. Later, he’ll knock on Gaby’s door at the hotel and listen while she, with a trembling voice, remembers her foster parents, remembers the Germany of her childhood. After, Illya will hold her close to his chest and hum a song against her hair, one his mother used to sing to him. He does none of that now, though. The three spies get back in the car and drive deeper into the city, and when Illya glances back, he catches a small smile from Gaby in the rearview mirror. It is enough for now.


	2. Bruges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Belgium, Gaby and Illya stop to see the sights.

“How much farther?”

A coil of steps spirals up into the Belfry Tower, leading a man and a woman into oblivion. Gaby Teller, frankly, has had enough.

“Tired, chop shop?”

From several steps ahead, Illya stops, turns back, flashes her a private smile and taunts her with sarcasm that only Gaby could recognize. His blue eyes, lovely in their brilliance, crinkle at the edges. The look alone would make her heart stutter if it weren’t already beating overtime. Instead, she glances down at her feet and focuses her efforts towards regaining her breath, steadying herself against the brick walls of the bell tower.

“Coming?”

When Gaby looks up, Illya is moving again, climbing the steps two at a time. She huffs in frustration, taking a final, deep breath before restarting the climb. Back at the hotel, he’d told her they were going for a “short walk”. Now, Gaby regrets following him, regrets even letting him through the door to her room. She brings a palm to her forehead and wipes the sweat gathering at her hairline. Begrudgingly, she increases her speed, skipping every other step, until she closes some of the distance between her and Illya. “This better be worth it,” she grumbles to herself in German. There is something about the way Illya coughs over his shoulder that makes Gaby wonder if he heard her.

They climb mostly in silence, an occasional word from Illya the only interruption. Gaby counts the steps and loses track after two hundred.

“47 bells chime on the hour. Some weigh, _mmm_ , approximate 11,000 pounds.”

“That’s great, Illya,” Gaby wheezes, not really caring at all about the weight of the bells. She feels a bead of sweat leave her bangs and slide down her nose. If Illya is at all tired, he doesn’t let on, and it is not the first time Gaby has wondered where his energy comes from.

“Almost there,” Illya says several minutes later. For a moment, Gaby’s eyes leave the steep wooden steps to glance up; when she does, her foot misses the step ahead and she stumbles backward.

“Verdammt-”

A strong, calloused hand catches Gaby by the elbow before she can even finish the word. When she looks up, concerned eyes and furrowed eyebrows meet hers. Gaby wonders how he got to her so quickly. 

“Careful, chop shop girl.” It is all Illya says as he, still with his hand around Gaby’s elbow, moves her up the steps and in front of him. Gaby laughs, briefly, before plodding on. She counts forty more steps until a break in the light causes her to look up. A door stands open and a cool draft hits her face, welcoming them to the top of the bell tower.

“Thank God,” Gaby groans, reaching the top and stepping into the open air. She looks up and sees large wooden rafters crisscross over her head. In the center of the open landing, bells of different shapes and sizes hang suspended off the rafters. When her eyes level and she looks around her, her breath catches in her throat, but not from exhaustion. In every direction she looks she sees Bruges. Red-tiled roofs of ancient homes jut out at different angles, reminding Gaby of doll houses, the specks of moving cars like toys. On the ground, the Belgian city had felt charming and quaint in its antiquity. Now, up in the air, Gaby cranes her neck and squints her eyes to see where the city limits stretch past the horizon.

She approaches the edge of the landing and rests her hands against the chicken wire, placed there to keep her from falling into the sky. The river, the buildings, the roads and bridges all bathe in the golden glow of sunset. Gaby closes her eyes and relishes the setting sun’s warmth against her skin. When she exhales, she feels Illya come up behind her and crouch slightly, lacing his arms around her waist. He nudges the side of her head with his nose and kisses her earlobe lightly before whispering softly to her.

“It was worth it, yes?”

She smiles and says nothing as the sun sets against her skin. Around her, the songs of 47 bells begin to sing.


	3. Isle of Skye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Scotland, Illya counts stars and thinks of Gaby.

A million stars glimmer over Illya’s head. The deep indigo sky stretches around him in every direction, past the black mounds that Illya knows in daylight are hills. Behind him, Gaby sleeps besides the remnants of a once crackling fire. On any other night, this would have felt romantic. 

He hears Gaby stir and moan softly, and when he looks over to her, he sees her shifting on to the opposite shoulder. “Is it still bothering you?” he asks, his voice barely louder than a whisper. She nods and Illya stands and walks to her, crouching beside her sleeping bag on the ground. His moves his hand, kept warm in a thick black glove, to her shoulder and rubs at her skin lightly. Gaby winces first, her mouth twisting in pain, before relaxing and easing into Illya’s touch. 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to switch?” Gaby looks from the upper corner of her brown eyes to the telescope Illya has sat at for the last two hours, observing a small cottage through the lens. It is the only dot on the map for miles.

Illya smiles and moves his hand from Gaby’s shoulder to the crook of her neck. “No. Go back to sleep.” He weaves his fingers through a few strands of her hair and remains like that as Gaby’s eyes drift close again. When she mumbles to wake her if something happens, he leans forward and plants a soft kiss to her temple, unwinds his fingers from her hair, and turns back to his post at the top of the plateau where they are camped. He wants desperately to unzip her sleeping bag and crawl in beside her, pull her against his body and feel her warmth against his skin. 

But Illya doesn’t. He is a soldier by nature, and duty and service keep him alert and ready, looking into the window of the cottage, the suspected meeting place of a local terrorist group. Two months ago, Waverly had tasked the pair with observing and collecting information on the comings and goings of the illegal organization. Without Solo, who had been called stateside by Sanders for a brief assignment, Gaby and Illya had deployed to Scotland, posting in a safe house just outside of Portree on the Isle of Skye. 

At first, the mission had seemed easy. Gathering information was tedious, but not difficult, made tolerable by the fact that Gaby and Illya were posing as a married couple conducting research on the Cuillins mountain range. Each day they went out, either into town or hiking the lush, green hills and valleys. Their interactions with locals were few, the valuable bits of information they gathered about the suspected gang even fewer. After a month, Illya began to grow impatient at the slow progress of the work, and Gaby restless and despondent, a growing sense of isolation nagging at her each day. 

At week seven, on a rainy night with wind rattling the single-pane windows of the safe house, Illya had woken to the sound of Gaby shuffling from under covers to sit on the side of the bed. “What do you need?” he’d asked, standing to sit beside her on the edge of the mattress. 

“I feel-” a small sigh, a hand wiping away a tear. “I feel like all that was me is gone here.”

With nothing to say, Illya had simply reached for her, pulling Gaby towards him and hugging her close. She’d wrapped her arms around him too, and they’d remained that way until the rain outside had stopped howling and Gaby had stopped crying. Eventually, they both fell back asleep. 

It’s that same night Illya thinks of now, stomach-down in the grass on the top of a windy plateau. He replays Gaby’s words in his mind and counts the stars in the sobering silence of the valley. No one comes or goes from the cottage, but Illya remains glued to the telescope anyway. After many hours, the dark sky fades to purple and a comet of pink morning light stretches over the hilltops. He hears Gaby stir awake, hears a zipper open and a rustle of items being stowed away into a knapsack. Before she can pack anything else, and before they begin the long hike down the valley and back to the safe house, Illya stands and goes to her. He pulls her close and wraps his arms around her, welcoming her into the warmth of his parka. Gaby doesn’t ask, and Illya doesn’t explain. Instead, they remain that way for some time, two statues against the side of a cliff, a cold morning breeze billowing around them.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed part three of this little series! A lot of the imagery in this chapter was inspired by "The Skye Boat Song". Give it a listen, if you get the chance!
> 
> Also, a special shout out to my friends diadema and somedeepmystery. You are both so kind, so encouraging, and so affirming! I'm grateful to each of you, and I encourage any other readers to go and check out their writing!


	4. Mykonos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Greece, Gaby stays awake as a giant Russian sleeps beside her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another little one shot from Gaby's POV. I like to think of this as complimentary to the last chapter; roles have switched for the two and now we get to hear Gaby's inner monologue as Illya sleeps. As always, thanks for reading, and please enjoy.

Starting at an early age, Gaby Teller has always known sunrises. 

She remembers vividly her first night of insomnia: aged fifteen, laying beside a snoring boy who had climbed in through her window after her foster parents had fallen asleep. Desperately, Gaby had wanted him to hold her, to fall asleep in his arms the way her school friends described their teenaged loves. Gaby’s mind had a different idea. She’d flipped from shoulder to shoulder, every angle neither comfortable nor sleep-inducing. The boy’s snores had been loud and reminded Gaby of a pig, and several times Gaby kicked him in the shins, whispering furiously that he shut up or her parents would catch them. Eventually, when Gaby watched the darkness of night dissolve to early morning pinks and blues, she shook the boy awake and ordered he leave. He didn’t call again. 

Although much has changed since then, Gaby still feels very much like that fifteen-year old perched on the edge of a creaky bed, watching the sun rise over the city. She faces an open window, but instead of the streets of East Germany, she sees the dark waters of the Aegean Sea. Instead of the tenement buildings she played in as a child, Gaby sees white stucco houses awash in early morning light, sees white stone pathways snake between buildings and lead to the beach. Instead of a stupid teenaged boy snoring in bed beside her, Russia’s best KGB agent sleeps quietly. 

Gaby shifts and looks over her shoulder at Illya. His cropped blonde hair feathers against his pillow awkwardly, and Gaby leans over and combs it back into place, gently, with her fingertips. His face, the face that has scared grown men and seen right through Gaby at her weakest, is blank with the serenity of sleep. When Illya sleeps, he  _ sleeps _ . It is one of the things Gaby has envied about him since their first night in Rome. She’d laid across the room from him that first night, turned on one side to look at him, and tallied the ways in which she could slip from his presence undetected. She’d taken stock of the room and memorized the furniture she could use as a weapon in case Illya, a man that stood taller than the Berlin Wall, tried to hurt her in any way. The thought makes Gaby’s chest ache now as the sun begins to rise over Mykonos. 

Slowly and quietly Gaby lays back down, pulls the sheet over her body and slides toward Illya. Facing him, she nudges his jaw with her nose and plants the lightest kiss on the side of his mouth. The muscles of his face twitch. As deep as Illya sleeps, he is always easy to wake up. He explained it to her, one time in a train car, on some mission in some forgotten country. “KGB teach you to be alert, even in sleep,” he’d said. Sensing Gaby’s presence now, Illya wraps both of his arms around her slight frame and hugs her closer.

“Did you sleep?” His eyes remain closed, his voice husky and deep. 

It is the question he asks most mornings. Often, he’ll wake and find her away from the bedroom and come upon her silently, place a hand on her back, and ask her the question he already knows the answer to. On foggy Saturday mornings in London, when neither are on assignment, Illya will sometimes pick Gaby up and carry her back to bed. It is those mornings she relishes most, laying in bed against Illya’s chest, while he rubs her back and fiddles with her hair until she falls asleep. When she wakes, she knows she’ll find steaming tea waiting for her in the kitchen. 

“No,” Gaby whispers.

Illya’s palm sweeps gently over her cheek as he blinks his eyes open and frowns. “Why didn’t you wake me?” 

She rarely does; he asks her to anyway. 

The two lay there for an hour more and watch the sun rise high in the sky. Outside noises- birds chirping, waves lapping against yellow sand, Greek children shouting at each other- all call to them from beyond the window. Gaby laces and unlaces her fingers with Illya’s, grateful that their work day will not start for several more hours. For now, they lay together, their fingers intertwined and their feet tangled together, until Gaby’s eyes begin to grow heavy. The last thing she feels before slipping away is Illya’s lips, soft against her own.  


	5. Nice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solo cooks for Gaby on the other side of the Wall.

“Drink with me.”

It is a request that Napoleon Solo has no trouble accepting. He cares little that it is barely 5pm on a Friday afternoon, or that he is tending to a simmering pot of beef stew on the stove. Beside him, Gaby stands barefoot on the kitchen counters and rifles through the liquor cabinet.

“What about this one?” Still with her nose in the cupboard, she lowers a bottle of honey colored wine and dangles it in front of Solo’s face.

“Muscats are usually reserved for dessert.”

He tilts his head and looks up at Gaby. She shrugs, clutches the bottle of wine in her hands, and produces two glasses from another cupboard. He glances back down at the pot and swirls the wooden spoon before a petite foot nudges him in the arm. 

“Yes?”

“Help me,” Gaby mumbles. Solo offers his hand and helps her from the black and white countertop, making sure she doesn’t slip against the tile. He notices the brown and red flecked knit socks on her feet, a gift he remembers Peril giving to her last Christmas. 

Gaby touches down and uncorks the bottle, pours two generous glasses and takes a long drag before handing the second glass to Solo. 

“Taking this whole holiday thing very seriously, I see,” he says, taking the glass in hand. He takes a sip himself and sets it beside a half cut baguette on the counter. Gaby rolls her eyes at Solo over the rim of the glass and turns away, sitting at the small kitchen table with an exaggerated sigh. 

“I was thinking tomorrow we could lunch at the Hotel Negresco. Apparently Grace Kelly herself raves about the  _ salad nicoise _ .”

When Solo looks for a reaction, all he sees is Gaby nose deep in her wine glass again. He sighs. They’d arrived in Nice three days ago, and with each setting sun he felt Gaby grow more and more anxious and despondent. Briefly, Solo’s mind drifts to Illya and the last words he said to him before leaving for Moscow. Before he can think any longer, the  _ ding  _ of the kitchen timer brings him back to earth. He lowers the door to the oven, grabs a towel and extracts the pan from inside. “Gaby,” he says over his shoulder. “Would you be so kind as to go sit on the balcony?”

“Thank God. I’m starving,” Gaby groans as she gets up and crosses the kitchen, the bottle and glass in her hands. Solo catches a flash of her blue sweater in his periphery as she exits. If Gaby Teller were any other woman he would feel utterly annoyed, he thinks, chopping a sprig of parsley and sprinkling it over dishes of hot food. He finishes the dish with a final flourish and takes off the striped apron he’d been wearing. He balances plates and serving dishes on his forearms as he makes his way from the kitchen and onto the balcony, to the table set for two. It is a quiet night, the hotel where the two spies are staying nestled in one of Nice’s more upscale neighborhoods. The sky, just after dusk, radiates cornflower blue, the clouds hanging too low for any stars to peek through. 

Around them, other balconies host dinner parties and lovers enjoying the evening. To their right, Solo sees an older couple spinning in circles on the balcony, a record player just barely audible in the distance. They laugh and smile, the woman batting playfully at the man Solo assumes is her husband as he kisses her hand, neck, and face. Solo notes, with amusement, how unlike them he and Gaby are.

“To start things off we have a lovely assortment of cheeses that I think you’ll find very pleasing.” He gestures toward the first plate and looks up to see Gaby’s eyebrows raised. “Don’t worry, none are too stinky for  _ mademoiselle _ .”

Gaby laughs and smiles as he continues. “Also as an appetizer, we have a local treat: pissaladière.”

“What is  _ that _ ?”

“Think of it like a pizza.”

Gaby hesitates and gives the dish a skeptical look. “There are fish with  _ eyes _ on it.”

Solo sits across from Gaby, unfolds his napkin, and spreads it across his lap before looking back up. “Then you best eat up before one winks at you.”

The pair sit in silence, save for the occasional clink of a fork against a plate. He watches in amusement as Gaby takes a hesitant bite of the savory tart and chews, methodically, before going in for another forkful. They move, after some time, from appetizer to entree, a rich daube that the smell alone makes Solo’s mouth water. 

“Mm. This is good,” Gaby says, still chewing a piece of meat. 

“I would have to agree.”

The stew exceeds his expectations and they both go in for a second helping. He can tell Gaby likes it as she grabs multiple pieces of bread and soaks them against the sides of the plate, catching any remaining drops of broth. “What were you saying about tomorrow?” she asks, still focused on her food.

“Lunch at the hotel. You’ll like it.” Gaby nods, takes another bite of dripping bread. Solo continues. “Followed by a few museums I simply can’t ignore. I was thinking later we could get dinner out and go dancing. I have specific instructions to- how did he put it? ‘Wine and dine’ you.”

Solo says the last few words with caution and watches Gaby carefully. Through the scruff of her bangs he sees her pause, a look of longing flashing across her face. She reaches for her wine glass, takes a sip, and finally makes eye contact with Solo, reaching for another wedge of bread.

“Does it bother you that he’s not around for today?” Solo can guess at the answer to his question but asks it anyway. 

Gaby shrugs. “Why would it?”

“Because it’s Va-”

“I’ve never had a lover to celebrate with any other year. Why would this be any different?” Gaby finishes her glass and pours another. Solo sighs at the tremendous hangover she’ll likely have tomorrow and reminds himself to make lunch plans as far past noon as is appropriate.  _ At least she’ll sleep _ , he thinks. That would be one positive to report back to Peril when he returns from the Iron Curtain. With a clearing of his throat, Solo stands and clears the plates away. When he returns from the kitchen, he sets the final dish down in front of her questioning eyes. When he explains- fresh cherry clafouti- Gaby laughs.    


“You’ve made a sponge, Solo.”

They both smile. Gaby, to no one’s surprise, enjoys the cake, just as Solo had hoped she would. They finish the final course discussing their plans for the remainder of their holiday, three more days in the south of France before heading back to real life in London. Two days after that and Peril will be back with them. Gaby will have the chance to reset the watch around her wrist from Moscow time to London time, and Solo will describe the trip- the trip Illya paid for entirely- in great detail. Illya will scrutinize every choice, every restaurant, every gift Solo purchased for Gaby, but he will nod in appreciation anyway. Privately, he will thank Solo for taking the woman he loves on the romantic holiday he could not. For now, Napoleon and Gaby sit on the balcony and finish a bottle of wine together, two friends in a sea of lovers on the most romantic day of the year. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A different kind of love to celebrate with this one-shot! :)


	6. Venice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not all love and romance for our favorite spies.

On a clear day in May, the Piazza San Marco teems with life. Blue sky stretches for miles uninterrupted, the sun beaming overhead. It is warm, but not hot, and every so often a cool breeze rushes through the Piazza and startles ornate hairstyles and loose hats. Filling every corner of the Piazza are children screaming with laughter, tourists snapping photos and eating gelato, and local Venetians weaving to and fro. 

Gaby Teller is one of many seated in a row of canary yellow plastic cafe chairs and tables. Beside her, a forlorn Venetian newspaper acts as a coaster to a cup of espresso and a plate littered with panini crumbs. A small stack of art history books and journals also take up space on the small table. Gaby sits with her legs crossed, her hands folded in her lap, her face craned upward toward the sun. A pair of dark, bug-eyed sunglasses cover her face, and her pony tail brushes over her bare shoulders. In an alternate universe, maybe she would be a student here, Gaby thinks, enjoying the feeling of her face and shoulders growing warmer. Maybe she would actually give a damn about neoclassical sculpture, and perhaps the scratches of handwriting in her notebooks would actually be hers. Perhaps, when she finished studying, she would leave the Piazza and wander through Venice, stumble into a bakery, and waste an entire afternoon growing fat on biscotti.

None of those things are true, though. Gaby is not a graduate student at the local university, and the notebooks in front of her contain scribbles that were fabricated by U.N.C.L.E’s forgery department. She cannot wander off and waste a day; she is positioned perfectly to catch the attention of her mark, her skimpy black and white striped dress and fashionable heels all curated to grab his attention. She knows the mark and his friends: young college students, all sons of Italian politicians suspected of using government money to fund illegal weapons deals. She has watched them, calculated them, spent entire nights strategizing with Illya and Solo on ways to earn their trust and gain their favor. And now, Gaby waits, baking under the sun, and counting the minutes until they wander into the open square. 

When the mark finally does appear, he strolls up to Gaby, speaking in charming Italian. When he sits down across from her and takes a sip of espresso without asking, Gaby only smiles. On the surface, it is very much a flirtatious grin. They spend several minutes talking, discussing lectures and sights Gaby has yet to see.

“What a shame,” the young man moans, all in Italian. “What a shame you have not yet seen the  _ Teatro La Fenice _ . The building itself will make you swoon.”

Her mark leans in closer across the table and grazes his hand over her shoulder, insisting that she simply  _ must _ let him take her to a show. Gaby giggles and agrees.  _ Perhaps she can make time from her studies. Perhaps this weekend.  _ They pick a date and Gaby’s mark takes her hand in his, all twinkling eyes and floppy hair that she recognizes from current fashion magazines. He smooths his thumbs over her hand and plants a soft kiss against it, then another, then another. From several yards away his friends call to him, call him names in Italian, and interrupt the mark from his spell.

“Well, it looks like we’re out of time.”

‘“Yes,” Gaby agrees, standing when he does. 

He reminds her of their date and takes her hand again. Leaning forward, he goes to kiss her hand one last time before he is interrupted, knocked into by a very tall, very stoic Russian.

“My apologies, comrade.”

Gaby’s mark says nothing and gives her a look of longing before rejoining his friends. Gaby watches him go, counting the seconds before it is safe to the giant standing in front of her. When she snaps her head back, Illya’s blue eyes are all she can see.

Gaby clenches her jaw and remains silent, scowling up at Illya. She can’t read his face at all; they are both on assignment, Solo also in the Piazza somewhere, likely watching from a distance. She wants to say  _ something _ , to growl through her teeth at Illya and his interruption. Instead, her mouth remains in a thin line. 

A moment goes by before Illya turns, disappearing into a crowd of tourists. Gaby is left standing alone, the jostled cafe chair in front of her the only proof that someone else was standing there mere moments ago.  _ It could only have been seconds _ , Gaby thinks, frequently stumped by Illya’s ability to appear and disappear in a flash of smoke. If she didn’t feel pressure mounting in her chest, maybe Gaby would have even been amused. Instead, she turns back to her  _ stuff _ , strewn across the table, and begins chaotically shoving it into her bag. She slings one strap over her shoulder before leaving he Piazza behind her, taking long strides and cursing the slow-walking pedestrians in every direction.

She walks alone for many minutes, taking long, slow breaths in and out through her nose. They do little good, and her heart still beats loudly in her ears, her jaw still sore from where she clenches her teeth in frustration. Winding through crumbling city streets, she hopes to lose anyone trying to follow her. When she reaches an intersection and looks up and across the lane, she knows that she’s failed: standing together by a flower vendor are Solo and Illya. Solo, handsome as always, has his hands in his pockets, wearing the navy three piece Gaby helped him pick out several days before. Illya, in a black jacket and his typical grey flat cap, stands just to Solo’s side, his eyes darting between cars and passersby. They stop when they settle on Gaby. 

She pauses at the intersection, waiting for cars to slow and stop, before crossing the street and joining her partners. “What the hell was that?” she growls once she reaches them. 

“Well hello to you, too,” Solo says, his eyebrows raised, his mouth in his usual trite smile. 

“Don’t you dare,” is all Gaby says before she turns quickly from the two men and marches down the street. She feels them follow after her and wills the earth behind her to open and swallow them both. They deserve it. 

Gaby keeps walking, heading to the cramped apartment she’s been assigned for this mission. It is an old, withered thing, nestled above a millinery business in a shabby part of town. Gaby knows the way there will be relatively empty as well, the back alleys home mostly to garbage and stray cats. Frankly, she doesn’t care if the entire population of Italy is there to see the three spies together. When they finally reach a shadowy alley, Gaby spins on her heels and faces the two men. 

“I was doing just fine myself, you know.” She faces her partners and squares her fists against her hips. For several seconds, neither man says anything in reply. Finally, Gaby sees the side of Illya’s mouth twitch up. When he speaks, his deep voice bounces between the brick walls of the alleyway.

“Mark was growing too bold with you. It is not my fault that you fail to see this.”

“What I think Peril is trying to say here is that-”

“Shut up, Solo!”

Gaby feels her pulse quicken, feels herself taking exaggerated breaths through her nostrils. Out of the corner of her eye, Gaby sees Solo’s mouth snap shut and his eyebrows raise expectantly toward Illya. He looks almost amused, almost pleased that Illya interrupted her mid-mission and threatened their entire operation. Gaby will get to him later, she thinks. For now, her eyes are on Illya.

“The whole point of my being here is that he likes me and introduces me to his father.  _ You  _ know that,” she says through gritted teeth, pointing an aggressive finger at Illya. To her fury, his face remains blank, the corners of his mouth turned down slightly. He reminds Gaby of the first time she met him, towering over her in that gaudy shop in Rome. 

“How are we to trust that you will not get distracted by the mark’s charms,  _ hmm _ ?” 

As soon as he says it, Gaby sees Solo’s amused eyes grow wide with trepidation. She also sees Illya clench and unclench a fist, and at the same time feels her own blood boil and heart begin to race. She fights every urge to remove her bag from her shoulder and fling it at his arrogant head. 

“Grow distracted?” Her voice is calm, too calm, and in her chest she feels the pressure already there grow tighter. For several beats, silence settles between the three. Finally, Solo is the first to speak. 

“Okay, people. Tensions are high right now. Unfortunately for us, we have recon to do this evening. I think it would be best for  _ everyone  _ if you made it easy and kiss and make up like you always do.”

“Well I don’t want to work with someone acting like an  _ asshole _ ,” Gaby hisses through her teeth. It is the last thing she says before turning back and stomping away from the two men. 

“Well I do not want to work with someone who is- how do you say it-  _ spitting fire _ .”

Gaby spins on her heels and sees Illya following her from a few paces behind, Solo following a few paces behind Illya. Over Illya’s shoulder, Solo’s wide eyes grow wider, his mouth contorted as if he just heard some shocking joke. 

“The word is  _ spitfire _ .” Gaby yells it this time and turns, walks as briskly as she can before resorting to a full run. She jogs the remaining three blocks to the apartment, her rage at Illya threatening to bubble up her throat and spill through her ears. When she gets to her building, she lets the front door slam behind her and begins the walk up the winding staircase to the third floor. The stairs are wide enough for only one person, and several times, Gaby has to draw herself against the wall and squeeze in her ribs to let another tenant pass. When she reaches her apartment, she slams that door too and locks it, pacing around her flat for what feels like hours. In reality, it is only minutes, leaving Gaby to sit at the couch and let her anger grow dull and faded. She watches the sun set over Venice, over the ruins of ancient buildings and canals, until a distant  _ beep _ of a car honks twice on the street below. She changes into her tactical gear quickly, slipping through the building and out onto the now darkened street. Around the corner, a car waits for her, with Solo at the wheel and Illya in the passenger seat.

“There’s our little spitfire,” Solo says as she slides into the backseat. She smacks him lightly in the ear but says nothing, her eyes angled away from Illya. They drive the fifteen miles to a government building in silence, but every few minutes, Gaby catches a flash of blue in her periphery. When they park at the bottom of a hill and get out, Solo moves swiftly, going to the trunk to procure their gear. Before Gaby can open the car door, Illya’s large hand stops her. 

“Forgive me,” he says. His face, normally hard and angular and stern, is soft, shards of light pouring in through the windows from the street. In an alternate universe, maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe she’d put him in his place, tell him never to treat her like an incapable spy ever again. Instead, Gaby merely leans her forehead against Illya’s. They sit that way before Solo appears in the window, letting them know it’s time to move. When they shut the car doors behind them, Illya brings her close, crouching down and hugging her against him. It is barely a second, and in a moment, he is paces ahead of her, leading the way and speaking with Solo in hushed tones. The only proof that he was there at all, his body low and bent around hers, is his warmth against her face and a soft imprint of his lips on her cheek. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! We are coming in for a landing with the final few chapters of this fic. If you've stuck around this long, thanks a million! As always, please feel free to leave questions, comments, or concerns. I try to engage with every comment left on here. Thanks again for reading and I hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	7. Big Sur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In California, Illya asks four words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my pretties! I'm sorry it's taken me so long to add this chapter. A combination of life being busy and me needing to take some personal space to clear my head caused the delay, and I'm very sorry for that!
> 
> As always, I do hope you enjoy this chapter and thank you for taking the time to read and comment. I promise the final chapter is coming soon! :)

“Gaby, will you marry me?”

The question rings in the bright, California air. Overhead, clear blue sky stretches as wide and as far as the ocean beneath it. A salty breeze kicks off from the sea and ruffles Illya’s combed hair. He is poised, bent on one knee at the edge of a cliff, a small black box open in his hands. His knee makes a dent in the long grass, and around him, dozens of golden flowers sway in the breeze. It feels like the perfect place, the perfect time, to ask this question.

“That’s it?”

Illya snaps the box shut. “What else am I supposed to say?” he says through clenched teeth.

Napoleon Solo stands in front of him, his hand still in Illya’s. “Make it a little. More. Romantic. Jesus, Peril.”

He clips his words the way he does when he’s trying to prove a point. Illya recognizes this, hates it from his partner, but reopens the box and takes a steadying breath.

“Gaby, we have worked together for two years now and-”

“Stop it right there.”

Illya shuts the box with force and drops Solo’s hand, the hand Solo had made him hold when he had first gotten down on one knee and practiced saying the words. He stands and lets a small growl emerge from the back of his throat as he dusts remnants of grass and flower petals off his slacks.

“Is that _really_ the best you’ve got?”

The way Solo asks makes Illya feel like they are on mission again, like the American disagrees with a tactical choice or wonders if Illya has actually thought things through. He wants to wipe the look off his partner’s face. He wants to chuck the small, velvet box into the ocean and will it to sink to the bottom. He wants Cowboy to forget that Illya ever told him of his plan to propose to Gaby, wants him to forget that Illya has been carrying the ring box in his jacket pocket for a week straight.

“What am I supposed to say?” Illya asks instead, pocketing the box. He opens and closes his fists and begins pacing, trampling grass under his feet. He has arrested criminals and defeated enemies of the state. He has crushed cars and motorcycles and people with his hands, has killed more men than he dare count or remember. He has pulled his teammates out of gunfire, and his body has absorbed bullets and poisons and abuses in his life that might kill another man. And yet, this question is the one that haunts him, the one that keeps Illya up at night, causes his chest to ache and his head to spin. The imagined look on Gaby’s face- the way Illya hopes her brown eyes will light up, the smile he has tattooed in his memory that makes his heart stop, the little laugh he hears every so often, sometimes when she’s dancing or joking with Solo- is one that Illya has drawn and redrawn in his mind.

“Peril, is the thing you love most about her the fact that you _work_ together?”

Illya stops pacing and looks away, his eyes fixed on the old highway snaking through green hills. The two men are stopped on the side of the highway on a dirt patch; behind them, the red Corvette Solo insisted on renting parked lazily in the dust. The American had driven them here, speeding through the winding highway and causing Illya’s stomach to turn. When they’d crossed Bixby Bridge, Illya had caught a glimpse of the green, lush canyon beneath them. Flying over the bridge, Solo had asked Illya about Gaby, over the roar of wind in his ears, and it was in a moment of fear and human weakness that Illya made the mistake of telling Solo his plan to propose. Solo had nearly squealed with delight like a child, pulling the car off as soon as they were on the other side of solid land.

“No,” was all Illya had said at first when Solo had asked him to recite his speech.

“C’mon, Peril. It doesn’t hurt to practice the words, the _I love yous_. How do you know it will come to you in the moment?”

“Again, no,” Illya had said, putting a hand up in protest. The American had not accepted that as an answer, and resorted to the dirtiest tricks, riling Illya up and taunting him out of the car. When Illya had finally succumbed, Cowboy had looked pleased, too pleased. Somehow, he’d conned Illya into getting down on one knee, on taking Solo’s muscular hand in his own, and reciting the words. Now, with the two men standing in the grass, Illya regrets everything. He regrets telling the American of his plans, regrets uttering a word in that heinous red vehicle.

Solo’s voice calls to Illya now, an unwelcome sound over the distant chirping of seagulls and ocean waves hitting sand, the occasional car roaring by them on the highway. “Still with me, Peril?”

The American stands with his hands in his khaki pockets, still smiling. Begrudgingly, Illya turns on his heels and makes his way back to his partner, each step slow and heavy.

“Think of anything?”

Illya looks at his teammate, takes a final, loud breath through his nose, and moves slowly down, back onto one knee. For a second, Solo flashes a quick smile, and the look Illya gives him is enough to make it disappear off his face. Instead, he silently holds out his hand. Illya takes it, swallowing down any bit of pride or integrity he thought he had remaining in him. On Solo’s face, Illya sees tight lips trying not to grin, sees eyebrows creeping up in expectation, sees a subtle tilt of the head to one side. The American is waiting, waiting to hear the words Illya has wanted to say for some time. He had wanted to say them in that hotel room on their last day in Rome, Gaby standing in from of him in the short, white dress Illya still sometimes thinks about. He’d wanted to say them in Istanbul, when Gaby had nearly saved him from drowning in his own rage. He’d wanted to say them after that, in Kiev, and in Glasgow, and in Hong Kong. He’d wanted to say the words across the globe, each country giving Illya a new word to describe the way his chest feels whenever Gaby enters the room and the way his stomach drops every time he catches her looking at him.

With the hot California sun setting around him, Illya looks into eyes that do not belong to Gaby and says the words he has wanted to say since the moment he met her. They float past the two men, over the cliff and into the ocean, carried by salty sea air and the whisper of crashing waves against pale sand.

 


	8. Lake Bled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Slovenia, Illya and Gaby's lives change.

Dusk settles over Lake Bled, casting golden beams of light across the water and onto Illya’s face. There is quiet all around them, broken only by the occasional flapping of wings from ducks grazing the surface. In every direction, green and orange trees line the lake; behind them, snow-kissed mountains form jagged lines in the horizon. Shutting his eyes for a moment, Illya wonders if there is any place on earth more peaceful than this.

“Illya?”

His name is a whisper, breaking him from his thoughts and forcing him to open his eyes. Across from him in the small wooden boat sits Gaby. Her hair is swept back, with the exception of a few loose pieces freed by the light breeze sweeping over the top of the lake. Beneath her trench coat is the cream dress she’d purchased just before leaving, from a small department store in London she’d picked over Solo’s more extravagant choices. The sleeveless dress was so unlike anything Solo had ever chosen for her, with a black belt and a row of buttons leading up to the collar around her neck. It was not like anything she’d ever worn in past missions, and it was one of the reasons Illya liked it so much.

“I can’t believe you’re not letting me help you,” Solo had said in Gaby’s flat several days before they’d left. “I’ve helped pick your clothes every other time.”

“This is different,” Gaby had insisted over her shoulder as she’d packed her bags. That had been two days ago, just before she and Illya had left for Slovenia, Solo to join them later in the trip. Sitting on Gaby’s couch with his face hidden behind his mission notes, Illya had smiled.

“At least let me see it before you leave.”

Gaby had raised her voice then, throwing a rogue shoe through the open door to where Solo sat in her living room. He’d acquiesced then, muttering to himself about no one appreciating his services, and he’d left his partners to their packing. That had been the last Illya had seen of Solo for two days, and he’d relished the bliss, the peace and the quiet, of past 48 hours.

“Illya?”

It is Gaby’s voice again. Illya shifts his focus back to her, to the way the evening sun glows around her and hits the high points of her cheekbones. Her brown, almond eyes are soft and searching, silently asking him where his mind has wandered.

“You look beautiful, Gaby.”

She says nothing but smiles, a small laugh coming out of her as she glances down at her flats. Illya says nothing too, his own small smile also growing larger. He continues rowing the boat, inching them closer to the small, tear-shaped island in the center of the lake. He may look foolish, he thinks, but for once he doesn’t mind.

“Have you heard from Solo?” Gaby asks as they near the perimeter of the island. At the shoreline, Illya takes a wide step out of the rowboat, pulling it behind him onto land.

“He is supposed to meet us tonight,” Illya says with a grunt, releasing the weight of the boat onto the sand. He straightens his back and turns to Gaby, offering her his hand and helping her avoid the water. Behind her, the small Slovenian village surrounding the lake looks miniature in the distance. The pair had arrived in the northwestern corner of Slovenia two days ago, taking a winding train to the small town of Bled. They’d kept to themselves mostly, coming and going from the quiet hotel only to get a sense of the village and for an occasional meal. Their only instructions had been to remain quiet and row out to the island on the evening of the third day.

“No one can know, of course,” Waverly had said back in London, seated behind the large teak desk in his office. The trio had sat in their usual places, thick manila folders containing passports, maps, and local currency in their hands. It had looked like any normal mission briefing, Waverly issuing his typical warning as he stood and shook the hands of each of his agents. When he’d reached Illya, he’d given him an extra pat on the elbow with a look in his eyes Illya couldn’t place.

It is Waverly that Illya thinks of now, docking the small boat on the edge of the island, the cool autumn breeze tickling his neck. He helps Gaby into her jacket, running his thumbs over the bare skin on her shoulders. When they turn back to the island, a waterfall of stone steps is the first thing they see.

“Legend says I am supposed to carry you,” Illya says, looking to his side down at Gaby.

“Or?”

“Or else bad luck for us, maybe for rest of our lives.”

She turns up at him and rolls her eyes, leaving him behind as she begins the climb up the stairs. Sliding his hands into his jacket pockets, Illya follows.

“How many?” Gaby asks over her shoulder.

“Ninety nine.”

Gaby groans and Illya wants to laugh. He skips steps to catch up to her, and instead of picking her up and carrying her the rest of the way, he laces his fingers between Gaby’s and gives her a squeeze.

“It won’t be so bad, chop shop girl.”

Ahead, the church steeple grows larger and larger in Illya’s line of sight, white bricks bathed in a dull, orange glow. Around them, smaller brick buildings line the staircase between green trees, reminding Illya of a village in a fairytale.

“So Mr. Kuryakin,” Gaby says, her voice bright and clear in the dusky evening. “Tell me about the steps.”

A glint of something flashes across Gaby’s eyes, her mouth turning up into a grin. Illya thinks his heart may burst, but he keeps moving, squeezing Gaby’s hand a little tighter instead. He thinks for a moment, his brows furrowed and mouth pulled to one side, before speaking.

“Not steps, but there is a bell in the steeple.” He breaks his hold from Gaby’s hand to point upwards toward the top of the church tower. “Bell was made by grieving young widow. It is said that she combined all her gold and silver and had a bell cast to commemorate her dead lover. It did not get to her though. It is said that boat carrying bell was hit by lightning. The sailors drowned, and bell sank to bottom of the lake. In mourning, she went on a pilgrimage to Rome and met the Pope, and he donated this bell to her instead.”

As if on cue, the bell begins to chime, its echo filling up the island and pouring over the surface of the lake. Nearby, a flock of birds launches from a tree and takes flight. Illya watches them go, his eyes following them through the tops of the trees until they disappear, flying to another corner of the island he cannot see.

“And when was _that_?”

“1534, approximately.”

There is a beat of silence before Illya hears Gaby voice over his shoulder again. “Is that true?” He nods. “Well that’s an awfully sad thing to hear on a night like tonight.” She says this as they reach the top of the steps. At the landing, a breeze hits them, hitting the back of Illya’s neck and billowing the edges of Gaby’s trench coat. Instinctively, he takes a step near her and places a hand around her waist, his body a shield against the chill.

“We made it,” Gaby says, craning her neck to look up at Illya. He looks down at her, wonders how someone could be so small, before a whistle in the distance causes Illya to look to his left.

“And it looks like we are not the only ones.”

Standing yards away against the white bricks of the church is Solo. Although Illya cannot see his partner’s face, he recognizes Cowboy from the way his feet cross at the ankles as he leans, leisurely, against the side of the church. Illya can make out the smart cut of a suit that belongs on the cover of a magazine, not against the side of an ancient building, and a head of slick black hair.

“It’s about time you two showed up for this,” Solo says when they finally meet each other. Gaby stands on the tips of her toes and wraps her arms around his neck. When they break apart, Illya catches his partner’s eyes, the American clapping him against the side of his arm. “Peril,” is all he says, and the two exchange a nod. Illya _has_ relished the uninterrupted days with Gaby, has enjoyed their comings and goings from the apartment, has enjoyed sleepy mornings reading a book while Gaby takes a shower or drinks her coffee. Illya has relished all of that, and yet, meeting Solo here, on Bled Island, Illya can’t help but feel glad to have his third teammate with them.

“Waverly has made all of the arrangements. Our man is inside.” Solo leads the charge back from where he came: the ancient Church of Assumption, plain and unassuming in the middle of the island. Illya’s eyes dart around the remaining buildings as they approach. He is grateful there are no bystanders, no one to witness this evening. When they reach the large, wooden doors of the church, Illya gives one last look over his shoulder before going inside. When he turns back, his breath, for a moment, leaves him.

Inside, white walls stretch high in the sky, arching over Illya’s head like clouds gathering before a snowstorm. Rows of pews lead his eyes down the aisle to the head of the church, to the apse framed by gold columns and ornate Baroque sculptures. Illya counts each of the gold-plated angels, the figures perched against frescos of saints long gone, until his eyes stop in the center. Glimmering in the dim light is a chandelier, and beneath it, a dark figure stands facing away from them.

The church interior steals Illya’s breath, makes him forget what century he is in, before a cool hand slips into his own, startling him from his wonder. When he looks down, it is Gaby, her grin unconcealed. “Come,” she says, and she eases Illya down the aisle of pews.

“Is that-” Illya asks under his breath, nodding toward the unknown man at the front of the church. When he catches Solo’s eye, he nods.  

“That’s our man.”

The three walk down the aisle, the echo of their footsteps the only sound audible in the church besides their own breath. Instinctively, Illya brings the hand not laced through Gaby’s to the breast of his jacket, reassuring himself of the gun strapped against his side. Slowly and silently the man turns as the three near the altar. He is short, dressed in plain black and hunched at the shoulders. His face, round and pleasant looking, wears the signs of many years well lived: deep wrinkles around grey eyes, lines around his mouth from decades of smiling, and a head of pale blonde hair beginning to bald on the top. He is forgettable looking, Illya thinks, a plain man surrounded by ornate beauty, entirely out of place. Gaby, Solo, and Illya slow their steps and stop at the foot of the altar. Solo is the first one to speak.

“Father Peter?”

The man bows his head slightly. When he smiles, the cracks around his eyes and mouth deepen. “Welcome,” he says. To his side, Illya thinks he feels Gaby’s shoulders relax, exhaling a sigh of relief that Illya shares. He loosens his jaw too, not realizing it was clenched. The four shake hands, exchanging hushed pleasantries in the resounding quiet of the church. In only a few words, Illya can hear a rich Slovenian accent on the priest’s lips.

“So,” he says, looking at the three spies expectantly. Illya finds he wants to speak, but can’t, the appropriate words gone from his immediate memory. He swallows and finds that his throat is dry, too, and gratitude washes over him when he hears Gaby’s voice.

“Thank you for helping us.”

“Of course. Any friend of Waverly is a friend of mine.”

Illya hears a soft laugh escape Gaby’s lips, feels a hand squeeze his own for a moment. When he looks down at her, her cheeks are flushed pink. She brings her other hand to her hair and runs a finger through her ponytail, the same thing he has seen her do dozens of times before when she is nervous. If either Solo or the priest speak, Illya can’t hear, too distracted by the way the soft glow of the church light dances in Gaby’s eyes. He wants to tell her again how beautiful she looks tonight, but before he can lean down and whisper in her ear, Solo interrupts him.

“Well, I suppose we should get on with it. The future isn’t going to make itself.”

Father Peter- a name Illya remembers vaguely from the briefing in Waverly’s office- steps aside, gesturing towards the three spies. Solo leads the way, hopping up the stairs and standing to the side. Gaby follows, pulling Illya behind her, and when he moves, he feels his body and the world around him slow. Father Peter situates them in the middle of the altar, just under the chandelier, and gives a final look around the church. When his eyes flit back to Gaby and Illya, he takes a breath and says the words Illya has been waiting to hear for longer than he can remember.

“Illya Kuryakin and Gabrielle Teller, you come here voluntarily with hearts prepared, to receive each other in marriage?”

Illya has waited to hear these words, reciting them in his mind as he crossed days and week off his calendar at work, envisioning this day for months in advance. Now, they hit him like freezing water, bold and unknown and nothing like Illya could have imagined. He turns back to Gaby and sucks in a quick breath. The pad of her thumbs rub against his fingers, stilling the shaking Illya can feel beginning in his chest. Under the light of the chandelier, Gaby flashes him a smile, takes a breath with him before they both open their mouths to answer.

“Yes,” they say together.

“Will you love each other, respect each other, and remain loyal to each other until death separates you?”

“Yes.”

At the Father’s prompting, they unlatch their fingers. Illya shifts toward Solo, whose smile hits Illya in a way he hadn’t expected, and wants to smile himself when he sees two gold bands already sitting in Solo’s palm. Illya reaches for them and exchanges a last nod with his partner, the partner who has helped him and Gaby get here, who bought the rings himself when Illya was called away on a last minute mission, who helped shroud this marriage in secrecy for weeks leading up to this moment.

Turning back to the priest, Illya takes another breath. When Father Peter asks him to begin his vows, his own voice sounds distant, reminding Illya of his childhood, speaking to a neighbor child through a tin can on a string.

“I take you, Gaby, to be my wife.” He wants to stop right there, wants to take Gaby’s chin in his hand and ask her, again, if she is sure. He has asked her a hundred times already, the first time in her flat back in London many months ago. It had been a rainy, grey day, the both of them awake and laying in bed in the early hours of the morning. His arm had been around her shoulders, Gaby’s brown curls fanned out over the pillow beneath her, both of her slender legs draped over one of his. She’d had a dream, she’d told him, that they were married on the top of a mountain. Inexplicably, their own future children were also at the wedding: two sets of twins, two boys and two girls. _Spitting images of us_ , Gaby had said, blinking up at Illya through dark, fluttering eyelashes. He’d chuckled, asking her some mindless question about having four children, when she’d stopped him.

“Is that something you want?” she’d asked, leaning up on an elbow to look at him. Illya had laughed nervously and wound his finger through a lock of her hair. She’d asked him again, and when he still didn’t answer, she’d climbed up onto his chest, squeezing his ribs between her knees, and asked him again.

“Are you ready for that?” Illya had asked in response. For how could he tell her that he’d already dreamt the same dream, had dreamt it for the very first time in Rome when he presumed he’d never see her again? How could he tell her that he wanted the same thing more than he has ever wanted anything else?

His memory of that day in London is interrupted by the voice of Father Peter, prompting Illya to his next set of vows and beckoning him back to the present.

“To be with you always, in wealth and in poverty, in disease and in health, in happiness and in grief, from this day until death separates us.” Illya says the words, his voice a foreign sound he doesn’t recognize fully. When he finishes, he gulps away at something at the back of his throat, at a feeling that threatens to overwhelm him. He looks down the bridge of his nose to his shoes before the sound of Gaby’s voice draws him back to her.

“I take you, Illya, to be my husband. To be with you always, in wealth and in poverty, in disease and in health, in happiness and in grief-”

Gaby’s voice carries through the church rafters like an ancient hymn. Surely, Illya thinks, even the songs sung in heaven could never sound as beautiful as this. He wants to stop her again. He wants to place a finger on her lips, wants to stop her from saying words he is afraid she may one day regret. _Are you ready, chop shop girl_ , he wants to ask her again. _Are you sure?_

“From this day until death separates us.”

With an exhale it is finished, and at the priest’s leading, Gaby and Illya slide the golden bands around each other’s fingers. To no one besides Solo, he pronounces them _man and wife_ , grants Illya permission to kiss her as if it were the first time. Illya drops Gaby’s hands from his, takes a step to her, and laces his fingers around her waist. _It is too late,_ he thinks. It is too late for Gaby to run, too late for her to call it quits and live a normal life without him. _It was always too late for him_ , Illya thinks as he pulls Gaby even closer. He was hers the moment he pulled up beside her in that abandoned street in East Germany, getting a close look of her face for the first time. He hadn’t stopped being hers, watching as she slipped through his fingers over the Berlin Wall with an American CIA agent, chased by the KGB dog who wanted, selfishly, to keep her there.

He hadn’t stopped being hers then, and he will not now, Illya thinks, leaning down to Gaby with a smile. She is smiling too, and as Illya closes his eyes, his chest swells with something greater than happiness. It is not an easy life they have chosen, the two of them. He knows they will face hardships. He knows they will face more abuses than any person ever should. Their bodies will be broken, their eyes and minds exposed to the darkest corners of the world that no person should ever bear to see. They may lose fellow agents, might see the deaths of people they care about. They may run for their lives over and over, the two of them never getting the dream of children and mountaintops that Illya knows Gaby wants. But Illya cannot think those things now. Instead, standing in the church with Solo cheering and clapping behind them, Illya can only hold on to Gaby and kiss her deeply, the gold rings around their fingers glimmering as the sun sets through the window. It is enough for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! And just like that, this fic is complete. Thank you to any and all of you have have read, left kudos, or gifted me with encouraging comments. This has been such fun to write; it was quite the labor of love but very worth it, indeed!
> 
> To diadema, for whom this fic is a gift: thank you always for your kindness, your encouragement, and your contributions to this fandom. We all love you, and this corner of the internet is a better place with you in it. <3
> 
> I hope you all enjoy!


	9. New York

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On his honeymoon in the Big Apple, Illya counts stars and moments.
> 
> Many thanks to my friend somedeepmystery who looked this over for me and cheered me on! You never fail to encourage me and push me creatively when I most need it. Eternally grateful for you, my friend!

The morning air is cool. It flows in through the open window, settling in the dark flat like fog. Illya is grateful for the sweater he’d packed, the forest-green, knit sweater Gaby had given him for his birthday. 

The apartment- Cowboy’s apartment, on temporary loan to Illya and Gaby- is dark. The glossy wood floors are cold beneath his bare feet, the open doors to the study and kitchen black rectangles against the cream walls. A mosaic of blinking stars faces him, watching him through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He feels, at this early hour, as if he is floating in space. 

He is grateful for the quiet, for the other-worldly calm that is hard to find in the bright, loud city. The last 72 hours have been a whirlwind, a mess of rich colors and vows and foreign languages that blend together like paint on a canvas. He feels the same way now that he felt looking at The Starry Night for the first time, on a walking tour at the Museum of Modern Art with Gaby’s small hand in his. 

“What do you think?” she’d asked him quietly, tilting her head to one side, as if to see it better. It had surprised him, that afternoon, when he couldn’t find the words. When something had tugged at his throat and the corner of his eyes. He’d merely looked down, fixated on the shine of his newly polished shoes, and waited for the feeling to pass. Gaby had squeezed his hand tighter then. They’d stood there for ten minutes, the pair of them. With hesitant eyes, Illya had stared at that painting, wondering how something so simple could affect him with its beauty. Gaby had stood beside him, holding his hand the entire time. 

He feels now as he did then: overwhelmed, threatened even, by the emotions of the past three days. They’d landed in New York so soon after Slovenia, stepping off the plane and onto the tarmac as two newlyweds overcome with love. This time, it wasn’t a cover. 

“Hey.” A mouse’s whisper stirs Illya from his memory. He turns over his shoulder, away from the the night sky distended over the tops of skyscrapers, to see Gaby standing in the open bedroom door. “What are you doing,” she asks as she approaches. 

The glint of gold around her finger is the first thing Illya sees when she comes up behind the couch and extends a hand onto his shoulder. 

“It’s still dark outside, Illya. Come back to sleep.”

Her voice, the whisper of his  _ wife _ , purrs to him like music from a radio. Winding her fingers through his, Illya lifts her hand and plants a gentle kiss on her wrist. 

“I will, soon.”

She leans over him, wrapping both her arms around his shoulders. “Well I’m going back to sleep,” she says against his skin. He can feel her mouth move into a smile. Before she can straighten her spine and move away from him, Illya catches her arms in his hands. He cranes his neck slightly, kissing her lips, savoring the feel of her mouth against his. 

He holds her close and kisses her, and when she goes away, the absence of her is cold and empty. 

“Hey,” Illya whispers, giving her fingers a final tug. Gaby turns back to him, the reflection of stars dancing in her eyes, her brown hair wild and curly as it falls over her shoulders. She wears his robe and smiles back at him, and the sight of her makes his breath catch in his throat. 

“Best of wives, best of women.”

She smiles as an answer, laughing as she pulls away from him and pads quietly back to the bedroom. He joins her an hour later, silent as he lifts the sheets and slides in beside her. The reflection of moonlight off their wedding bands is the last thing Illya sees before he falls asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! To the talented, funny, sharp, beautiful, creative, wonderful diadema: I hope you enjoyed this surprise chapter. I hope, more than anything, that it cheers you up and brings a smile to your face when you most need it. There are moments that the words don't reach :)


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